


Sleep, Will

by maxxeoff



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hannibal forces Will to go to sleep, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sleeping drugs, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxxeoff/pseuds/maxxeoff
Summary: Will isn’t sleeping. Hannibal rectifies this.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 55





	Sleep, Will

Will isn’t sleeping.

Now, Hannibal knows this. He’s curated Will’s psyche to become more unhealthy, more unstable. More malleable. Revels in Will’s nightmares and sleep-walking. 

But in the last week, Hannibal has noticed that Will is shutting down. At his most recent session, Will barely talks, instead staring listlessly into the middle distance. This isn't altogether unusual for Will, but there's usually an edge to him that he carries constantly, even in silence. He doesn't mention any dreams that could have put him off, either. Hannibal furrows his brow when polite pressing gets little response.

When Hannibal is invited to a crime scene to act as a psychiatric consultant (but he knows Jack wanted him there more as Will's retainer), Will stands in front of the bodies, blinking, not at all in the killer's head. It is only when Jimmy Price shuffles by and knocks Will off kilter that he really starts to analyze the scene. Even then, Will is more abrasive than usual. Hannibal frowns from his place of observation a few yards back. He expects Will to be tired, of course. In pain, naturally. A combination of encephalitis, sub-optimal work conditions, and being inside the heads of killers will do that. But this? It’s as if Will isn’t sleeping at all. The bags under his eyes have never been deeper. Jack has to call his name three times before Will turns around and answers the wrong question. 

At the forensics lab, Hannibal discreetly checks to see if Will is having an episode, or a seizure. But no, Will is just fading. He bats away Hannibal’s hand from his forehead with weakened muscles and insists he’s fine. Hannibal resists the urge to shove him against the wall and break open his skull with one of the many instruments lying around to see his brain and its inflammation. As Will walks away, he stumbles over a chair and goes down. Hannibal, shocked that Will didn’t catch himself, just stands there. Ms. Katz is the one who helps him up. Will’s reflexes are not working as they should.

Interesting.  


On the evening of their standing appointment, Will does not show.

_Rude_ , thinks Hannibal with no amount of anger, _to not even call ahead_. But worrying. If Will were sleeping poorly every night with his nightmares and seizures, he would still show up to his appointment. That’s been the norm. Something is wrong.

Hannibal slides on his coat. Will needs his careful attention, clearly. That man cannot regulate himself the way that Hannibal wants him to.

He arrives in Wolf Trap a leisurely hour later, a bag in hand. As he pulls into the rural drive, he catches sight of Will standing outside of his house, dogs running amok around him in the inch-deep snow. To Hannibal’s faint surprise, he’s wearing just a tee-shirt and slacks, no shoes or coat.  


Will doesn’t react to Hannibal’s headlights, nor his car door opening. Hopeful that he had been wrong to worry, Hannibal walks towards him, deliberately making noise in the frozen yard with his steps. Ignoring the dogs, he searches for signs of sleep-walking. However, as he approaches, Will startled and turns, albeit slowly.   


“... Hannibal. Sorry, I didn’t hear you pull up.” Will drags a hand over his face, and seems to notice it's cold against his pale cheek. He shivers.

Not sleep-walking, just processing very slowly. Hannibal holds back a frown. “You did not show up to your appointment,” he states, not unkindly.

“Oh, damn." Will glances around as if the distant trees will tell him the time. "Is it that time already?”

“An hour and a half since, in fact.”

Will stares at Hannibal, shivering, blinking slowly. “... Oh.” He absently rubs his hands up his bare arms.  


Hannibal makes his decision. “Come. We must go inside. You are freezing.” He leads Will by the elbow back to the front door. Will stumbles in the snow, focusing too much on his feet, but Hannibal keeps a firm grasp and does not let him go down. They shuffle inside, tracking in a bit of snow, and Will pauses, confused, before remembering to call the dogs in.  


In the wan yellow light of the main room, Hannibal can see that Will is desperately unhealthy. And not the kind of unhealthy Hannibal is crafting for him. Will stands in the middle of the room, swaying slightly, and looks out the window, cold water seeping from his bare feet into the carpet. He’s already forgotten Hannibal is there.

Taking off his coat, Hannibal takes a moment to observe the scene. The dogs have been fed, he notes, Will would never forget that. However. The house has not been cleaned in days. Hannibal knows Will is not spartan, but this goes beyond untidiness. The kitchen smells stale. The bed sheets are rumpled. Clothes lay on the floor, sweat-stained towels with them. Will himself is thinner than he should be, the shirt he would normally fill out draped around him like patient scrubs. His beard is unkempt, his hair oily. His clothes have stains, and Hannibal suspects he never took those pants off after the crime scene yesterday. Will’s eyes are bloodshot, puffy. He blinks slowly. His back is bent. His skin pallid.  


As Hannibal assesses, Will shakily takes aspirin from his pocket and downs four of them dry. Hannibal narrows his eyes. “Have you eaten today, Will?” Will blinks, perhaps surprised Hannibal is in his house.

“... Yes.” He frowns, stares at his hand where the aspirin once were. “I ate ... When was that...?” He mumbles to himself. Sighing, Hannibal corrals Will to the cluttered table and chair, draping his own coat over the man's shaking shoulders. Will goes easily, still focused on remembering his last meal. Hannibal pulls out a bowl of meat stew he prepared earlier, kept warm in a thermos. When Will notices the thermos and spoon in front of him, he protests that he isn’t hungry. However, Hannibal presses him to eat at least half of it, his voice firm.  


After the first few bits, Will mumbles a “thank you” and eats the rest with an animal fervor that Hannibal both reviles and adores. The temazepam should set in soon. Will starts to stand, and falters, so Hannibal pushes him back down. “I will clean up. Get changed into something warmer.”

Will mumbles something like “yes, _Doctor Lecter_.” Hannibal smiles faintly before he bustles into the kitchen. Seeing more of Will’s house, taking in the scent, Hannibal can tell that Will has been taking care of himself more poorly than usual. This will not do.

When Hannibal gets back, Will is still seated at the table, staring in front of him, unseeing, one of the dogs' head on his feet. “Will.”  


Incrementally, Will turns his head and regards Hannibal with eyes hidden in shadow and broken blood vessels. He grins and it looks like a knife slash across his face. “You didn’t have to come here to feed me dinner, Doctor. I’m not a child.”

Hannibal shakes his head, feeling as if the difficulty in taking care of Will is something akin to the care of a child indeed. “Have you been allowing yourself to sleep?”

Will holds his gaze, but Hannibal can tell he wants to look away. His eyes flicker, the tiredness suddenly even more apparent. “It keeps the dreams away.” Hannibal knits his eyebrows imperceptibly. He can see that Will’s eyes have a minute shake to them. His body has also not stopped trembling despite Hannibal being sure it is warm enough now. Hannibal takes a step closer, and Will flinches.  


“Will,” he chastises. “Your dreams will get worse like this.” Will shucks off Hannibal's coat and stands, surprisingly in control of his sleep-deprived muscles, but he sways on the way to the window. Hannibal does not reach to help him, knowing it would not be welcome.  


Will chuckles without humor, “Not if I only sleep when I pass out." He waggles a finger, still facing the window. "That way, I can’t even sleep-walk. Body too tired.” Hannibal holds back a long sigh.

“Your body cannot sustain this,” he warns, joining him but not looking outside. His eyes are set on the man listing next to him. Will grimaces; the lines on his face deepen. “My _mind_ can’t sustain this, _Doctor_.” His weight is on his hip now, leaning against the window sill. Hannibal suspects he may faint, otherwise.

“As a doctor, but more so as your friend, I cannot condone this.” Will glares at him, the fire in his eyes burning bright. Hannibal is surprised at the fervor after days of no sleep and the effects of the drug weighing on him.

“I know myself and what I can take, _thank_ _you_. I’ll be fine.” Will shits his eyes out to the blackness again, posture stiff.  


Rather than rising to the bait, Hannibal softens. Perhaps gentleness will finally work on Will Graham, in this state. He places a hand between Will's sweat-soaked shoulder blades, and strokes down, as if petting a particularly stubborn dog. Will’s eyes flutter, and he catches himself on the windowsill. “How about you change for bed.”

Eyes flashing open, Will steps back, dislodging Hannibal’s hand. Same Will Graham, he supposes. Even half-dead he’ll still be feisty. “I do _not_ intend to sleep at nine o’clock in the evening. Not even with a _doctor’s recommendation_.” Will stalks over to his desk, fiddling with the fish bait there with no purpose.  


Hannibal raises an eyebrow. Will’s personality is so strong that it overwhelms his body shutting down, the aid of several milligrams of temazepam coursing through his bloodstream. He tries a different strategy. “Let’s sit down. You can tell me more about the dreams.”

At that, Will deflates. He nods, and they take opposite ends of the couch. Hannibal politely refuses his offer of whiskey, and Will, showing restraint, doesn’t pour any for himself either. That was Hannibal’s goal. Alcohol would mix poorly with the drug in his bloodstream.  


Slowly, and then gaining steam, Will divulges his most recent dreams, all filled with blood and death and fear. Hannibal listens, nodding and responding when appropriate, secretly enjoying Will’s darkness. How fine of a killer he will make. But more than that, he looks for signs of sleep in Will’s eyes. Will is stubborn.  


Growing frustrated with Will’s refusal to take care of himself (or rather, his refusal to follow Hannibal’s carefully laid plans), Hannibal offers him tea from a different thermos, pushing when Will hesitates. "Peppermint is calming." 

It is also filled with sleeping aid. Will drinks, sullenly. Hannibal refills his mug when it is drained.  


Hannibal pretends to drink his own, smiling into his borrowed mug as Will sinks further into the couch, eyes closing and opening as if in slow motion. His head is lax against the back of the couch, legs akimbo. Will continues to frustrate, however, as he stays awake and talks longer of his tortured psyche. Two cups of laced tea sit in his stomach.  


It is nearing ten o’clock when Hannibal has had enough. Will is delirious, rambling on about the creature that haunts him and covers his hands in blood. Hannibal had taken the mug from his hands fifteen minutes ago when it threatened to spill in Will's errant grasp. Will’s eyes focus on nothing, and yet he is awake. Hannibal stands, and Will sinks his head to the cushion where he had sat.

Hannibal fetches his bag from next to the couch, and crouches in front of Will’s prone form. The insufferable boy remains awake, pleading Hannibal to take Jack off his back. Hannibal smooths down the sweaty hair from Will’s forehead, and the man shudders, eyes fluttering, almost closing. (They don’t.)

“Wha’ya doin’?” Will slurs as Hannibal takes a small glass vial from his bag and shakes it.

Glancing over, Hannibal answers, “Helping you get to sleep.”

At that, Will struggles, hands opening and closing and head turning away. How does he have this much fight in him? It’s thrilling but so aggravating.  “ _No_. I’m _fi'e_."

“You are not.” Hannibal states, matter-of-fact. Will tries to push the bottle away (or maybe he’s trying to take it, he can’t tell with the loose flailing), but Hannibal just holds his wrist. “Be good.” Will snarls at that, devoid of words, and Hannibal thrills a bit. Still, he reaches for the needle in his bag.

Will thrashes on the couch, but his limbs are too heavy for him to lift, and his wrist is secure in Hannibal's grasp. His mind should be swimming, with the strong dose of temazepam he’s trying to fight. Hannibal draws the liquid into the needle deftly, and calmly places his forearm across Will’s chest. “Han'bal, if you drug me, I’ll ...” Will slurs.

Unfazed, Hannibal injects the trazodone into Will’s arm with practiced ease. Will tries to complete his sentence, mouth opening and shutting, but cannot. His eyes struggle to remain open, glaring fiercely at Hannibal as he releases Will and puts his instruments away. Hannibal watches as the eyes close, and finally Will stills.

He huffs.

What a fiery and stubborn boy he has taken on. Hannibal will have to pay more attention to him, if this is how Will intends to treat himself. Hannibal needs him to be just healthy enough for what he has in store.

Closing his bag with a snap, Hannibal regards Will.

His eyebrows are knit together in his induced sleep, but he is breathing easily. Hannibal checks his pulse, and his circulation. Normal. _Good_. Standing up, Hannibal pushes away the curious wet noses trying to assess the well-being of their owner. He considers carrying Will to bed, but decides against it.

Will is likely going to forget most of this come morning, so it’s best to leave him in a place he could have accidentally fallen asleep on his own. Hannibal does rearrange his legs, and his head, to a more comfortable position. No need for muscle cramping to complicate things. He then busies himself cleaning away the dishes from the stew and tea, quietly. Not that Will could hear anything, in this state.

When Hannibal has his coat on, he checks Will’s vitals one more time, lingering on his pulse at his carotid. Strong and fast. Hannibal hungers but ... no. Not yet. He strokes his hand down Will’s jawline lightly.

He will come back and do this all again, if he needs to. If Will continues to hurt himself like this. There is only one person allowed to hurt Will. Hannibal smiles, and leaves.


End file.
